


The long road home

by nierapheh



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crimson Flower Route, Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, Minor Dorothea Arnault/Petra Macneary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:02:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23689639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nierapheh/pseuds/nierapheh
Summary: Edelgard is on the throne, but the battle hasn't stopped yet everywhere. Felix, disillusioned by the war, abandons his title and estate to continue fighting.However, he will not be separated from Sylvain forever.A fix-it of the paired Felix/Sylvain ending on the Crimson Flower Route.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

Felix tries his best at being the Duke of Fraldarius for a few days – after the war there is nobody left but him. He stares at maps of the lands for hours, memorizing former borders. He pours over numerous accounts of finances, taxes and deaths. He reads through reports from the war that he just helped end. It doesn't work.  
Older letters, still addressed to his late father and stacked on his oak desk which Felix moves into another empty room, speak of growing worries and despair among the nobility. Word travelled slowly amidst the chaotic tides of war. They all relied on their king, hoping against all odds that he might yet stop the relentless avalanche of the imperial army. He sees the loyalty behind their words and trust. It turns his stomach. He has made his choice, and he stands by it, but it doesn't stop his hands from shaking as he sorts through letter over letter. Eventually, after he finds himself reading the same passage promising to fight on until the very end in the name of their king, he just leaves them be.

The days drag on. Felix feels restless. Dorian, one of the attendants who didn't leave the estate even after learning that the Duke of Fraldarius had been felled in battle at the hands of his own son, delivers newer reports to him. Possessing an unchallenged amount of diplomacy, he doesn't mention the death of the former Duke at all, merely nodding to the new Duke. Felix wonders where Dorian’s loyalties lie; Loyal to the estate where he worked for his entire life? To the Fraldarius crest, a shining beacon of nobility, now destined to become confined to history? Or perhaps to nobody, remaining steadfast only to whoever is paying for his services at the moment? He doesn't find any answers in the faint lines that the practiced smile draws on Dorian's face. Does the motive matter, as long as the job gets done? 

He breaks the seal on the recently delivered reports. They relate news of skirmishes at the former borders; in a number of far off places the war yet rages, it seems. There are desperate people everywhere; commoners who lost their lands and goods, opportunists taking advantage of new power vacuums, bandits simply seizing their chance to further their own wealth at the cost of innocent blood. At first, Felix feels sick. Did all those people he and his companions killed die in vain; lives stolen in a quest for ultimate peace, against the overpowering authority of the church? What use is that peace now, that Edelgard and Byleth slaughtered to realize, if the people under their rule just keep killing each other with no good reason? Felix tastes the after-hints of blood on his tongue and stops reading those reports, too. Instead, he finds himself retracing the steps he has taken regularly since his childhood, ending up at the training grounds, brandishing his now useless sword at the targets in practiced motions, over and over again, until his entire body feels like it's on fire. This is all he is good for now. 

Felix stops his assault on the training dummy abruptly. He shouldn’t be here. He never should have come back here. With clarity he sees now that it had been foolish for him to return – there is no place here for him to fill. Which made him suitable for this position in the first place – his crest – is now meaningless either way. Felix stares at the edge of his sword and suddenly feels far away; remembers standing on the battlefield, blood dripping in lazily from the cold metal and staining his boots. He has been a fool to return to his father's - to the Duke's estate, somewhere he never belonged in the first place. A place where his only true skill is now wasted. He has a dawning realisation what he shall do instead. After all, there is nobody left to disappoint.

Shaking his head to clear his mind, he quickly returns the training sword to the rack. Before he leaves, he turns around, his eyes lingering for a while on the dusty ground where he used to spar with his brother; in those days that feel like so many lifetimes ago. With clenched fists he stops himself from wondering what Glenn, the heroic knight that he died as, would say to him now; pretends that he doesn't care. Felix finds himself standing yet again by the oak desk, leafing through recent reports. Marauders at the edge of the forest, strange occurrences near a small village. This is what he shall do, he decides, as he picks up the letter of some other useless Count helpless against an onslaught he hadn't prepared for, foolishly thinking the fight to be over. 

If he is going to cut loose though, he will make it official. Felix sits down, takes a piece of paper and a quill and starts drafting a letter to the Emperor. He makes it clear and succinct. There will be no more House Fraldarius, because the line is dying with him. “This is the future I fought for,” he writes. He tries to keep it formal, the way his father drilled into him in countless classes on proper conduct when Glenn’s death made him next in line; but he forgot most of those lessons while carving his way through the battlefield. He signs the declaration with a flourish and rolls it up. Then, he sits for a while. He knows he has to let Sylvain know about his decision, too. He doesn’t want to make him feel that he is intentionally leaving him behind. Felix knows that Sylvain intends to take over and do better than his father. He also knows that Sylvain might get an outlandish idea like joining and trying to protect him, if given the chance. For all his flaws, Sylvain had always been unnecessarily worried about Felix getting hurt in battle, even though both had spent years of their lives on the battlefront.

Despite his resolve, Felix still hesitates as he sets upon writing his letter to Sylvain. This should be easy, since he is essentially repeating himself, and yet it feels different somehow. Felix furrows his brows and berates himself for being childish. He can’t even decide on a proper opening – the last time he sat down to write a letter seems like ages ago – and he wonders what his father would say, seeing him struggle so much with a trivial task. Sylvain, is what he eventually ends up with; concise and to the point. No need to dress this up in any way. I have decided that I have no need for this title or for the role that my father left for me to fill. Felix hesitates for a while before setting his pen back down to write. With a start, he realises that this letter feels like a goodbye. When they finally left the battlefield after years of war, they hadn’t phrased it that way, but it should have been clear. There is nothing anymore that binds them all together, after all; no common cause left. Reports of battles that are still ongoing in certain territories have been brought to my attention. I will lend my sword to whichever cause I will deem worthy. Don’t waste your time looking for me, I don’t plan on staying in any one place for too long again.

He takes a moment to read over what he has just written. It feels unnecessarily harsh, even for him. He dips his quill back into the ink and adds Thank you. Felix hopes that Sylvain somehow will know what he means, just as he usually does, without having to ask. He signs the letter and rolls it up, without sparing it another look. One of the others will likely fill Sylvain in on any details should the need arise. Felix doesn’t want to dwell on it anymore; refuses to give it another thought. There is much to do before he can finally leave this oppressive place, and he is glad for the sense of direction that suddenly is taking hold of him. He is laying out swords in front of him, trying to decide which ones are essential to his journey, as Dorian returns to his chamber once again. Before the servant even has a chance to announce himself, Felix starts talking, balancing an engraved silver sword in his right hand. 

“Dorian, I know you have been serving my fath–, my family for years.” Dorian flinches at being addressed so directly, but Felix ignores him and continues speaking. “I have, however, decided to give up my title. I do not expect to return to this estate once I leave. Don’t worry about yourself, I don’t plan on leaving your loyalty and service to my family unrewarded.” Felix points his sword on a pouch at the desk, already filled with gold. His family’s fortune, too, seems pointless to him now. He won’t need anything that he can’t carry, and all the gold they amassed over the years is best spent on repairs. The crown should handle all of those matters, now. Felix no longer truly cares. 

Felix turns back to Dorian. The poor man seems to be deeply shocked by his decision, staring at him with mouth agape.

“But, my lord, surely that is quite an abrupt decision -”

Felix cuts him off by turning back to his swords, contemplating their merits. He weighs a thin blade in his hand - good balance, will be helpful particularly against leather armour. He remembers slicing into an opponent with this very blade on the battlefield, leaving their crumpled body behind as he ran to keep up with the cavalry. Sheathing the sword, he returns to the desk and picks up the letters.

“I do have a final request for you. These letters are meant for the Emperor and for the Margrave Gautier, respectively. I trust you will make sure they find their way.”

Felix hands everything over to his confused servant, ignoring any further protests. His mind is set, and he will not let himself be distracted any further. A few moments later, he hears the retreating steps of Dorian, who no doubt will now have to inform the few remaining staff of their Duke’s decision. Felix, however, starts packing his bags with some necessities: some provisions left over from the war, a few whetstones, some gold. He will travel light, as he is accustomed to. His hand lingers for a while over his collection of daggers. The professor had often gifted him high quality hunting daggers, and he has kept every one of them; he knows that each of them will serve him well. And yet, for the longest time, he regards the small, steel dagger Sylvain had brought him once, from the market – in a different time, before the war, when they were still for the most part ignorant children. Before he can lose himself any further in aimless thought, he firmly grasps the weapon, only sparing the floral engravings a short glance – Goddess knows what drove Sylvain to choose this one, it may have been one of his jokes – and puts it with the other weapons, to be packed in the morning for the journey.

The sun is setting outside. For a short while, Felix lets himself stare out into the familiar courtyard, where he can almost envision his excited younger self running along to meet his brother triumphantly returning from yet another battle. The thought that this miserable place will soon stand abandoned fills him with a dark sense of contentedness. Tomorrow, he will leave with the earliest rays of the sun, and he will not turn back.


	2. Chapter 2

The woods are silent. Breathing heavily, Felix looks down on the group of bandits he just defeated. None of them had been particularly skilled, but they’d made up for it in numbers. Pain is shooting through his left arm, where an enemy’s rogue arrow grazed him. Even after all these months, he isn't yet completely used to fighting all by himself – he still finds himself expecting the blade of a friend parrying a blow meant for him. Sometimes, he even catches himself listening for a familiar shout and the sound of hooves. It’s a weakness he is determined to leave behind.

He shakes his head, clearing his mind once more of all thoughts of companionship. The pain is turning into a consistent, dull ache. Felix curses himself for never learning basic healing magic – but it hadn’t seemed all that useful in the thick of battle, when Dorothea and Linhardt were just behind him, ready to patch him up before his next kill. But that was in the past – for now, he must handle this himself; and he does, tightly wrapping a strip of gauze around his wound. Felix can almost hear Dorothea mercilessly mocking his poor handiwork in the back of his mind. Nothing valuable to take for himself, and no decent weapons either, these people must have been truly desperate to pick a fight with the villagers. With one last look at the broken bodies, he sets upon leaving the woods once again. 

The sun is already casting wide shadows upon the cobblestones when he finally finds himself back in the village. The proximity to the former Adrestian border means that the people here have seen heavy battle, and broken windows and collapsed rooftops speak of misery still – the war has never left. He meant to collect his reward immediately and seek out a new contract, but this latest battle has left him feeling bruised and exhausted. His arm is starting to worry him, too; and from years on the battlefield he knows that even a minor injury like that can be dangerous. For tonight, maybe, he will simply retire for a rest. With his mind now set on a warm meal and a quiet night of solitary exercise, he makes his way to the tavern.

Most seats are empty, only the table in the corner by the fire boasts a group of men playing cards and speaking amongst themselves quietly, while a hooded figure sits close by, sipping ale. There is no noble luxury to be found among the wooden benches and chipped glasses, but the floor is clean enough. Felix had made a name for himself in these parts by now, and so the bartender only nods at him when he sits down in another corner, still heavily armoured. Soon, there is a plate of stew placed in front of him, and he feels his strength returning as he eats.

He recalls meals in Garreg Mach, remembers sharing dinner with his classmates; he’d been reluctant at first to interrupt his valuable training time; often he’d forgotten to eat altogether. Luckily, however, somebody had always eventually come to fetch him, usually, that was Sylvain. No matter how intense and rewarding the exercise, his friend would distract him with the enticing offer of spiced meat and a shared training session later until Felix joined him. During the war it had been different, of course – training was more intense, meals were often rushed. But there had always been some form of companionship, and he finds himself strangely missing his friends’ chatter after months of solitude.

The sound of a chair scraping on the floor snaps him out of his thoughts abruptly, and he looks up just in time to see the hooded figure setting down two tankards filled with ale on his table. Felix furrows his brows – so far, most people in these villages have taken one look at his swords and blood stained armour and wisely decided against befriending him. He is about to grunt something to that effect – to point out the abundance of free tables in this tavern – but the stranger’s smile gives him pause. He knows this person, and as he opens his mouth to ask her just what she’s doing here, Dorothea raises a finger to her lips and winks.

At the monastery, Dorothea had bothered him constantly, following him around and distracting him from practice with her strange, insincere manner. If he were to run into anybody out here, at the former Adrestian border, it wouldn’t truly surprise him that it would be her. He takes a closer look at her in the dim light of the tavern and finds her face similarly weary as his own – there are dark circles under her eyes, and her smile isn’t nearly as bright as it used to be when they were younger. Still, she seems genuinely glad to see him.

“Are you going to just keep staring at me? It’s impolite, you know.” The sound of her voice immediately brings him back to the present. Felix quickly takes a sip of ale, hoping to save face. The taste isn’t quite what he is used to, but he will not complain about a free drink. 

“Dorothea. I can’t say I expected to see you here.”

“Well, you’ve certainly surprised us, too. Everyone back home was quite shocked when you simply left. You didn’t even write; except to Sylvain, I suppose, but even he didn't know where you went!” There is nothing Felix has to say to that – there is no reason to justify his behaviour to her. Instead, he simply continues his meal, ignoring her. However, his clear dismissal doesn’t seem to work on her; he should have expected as much.

“I hear that you’ve been making a name for yourself around here, actually. They talk about you everywhere – they call you the Meandering Sword, and isn’t that a lovely title? It is like straight out of a play!” Felix’s hold on his cutlery tightens at that. Indeed, he has heard the townsfolk muttering about him, but it hasn’t annoyed him yet. The renown even helps him get contracts at times. Still, he can’t deny that the title sounds silly; especially coming from Dorothea, with her usual mocking tone. Knowing now that he won’t be rid of her so easily, he decides to change the topic.

“What are you doing here, then; looking for me?”

Dorothea huffs. “Of course not, silly, don’t be so self-centered. I’m on a... well, on a last tour, you might call it. I’ve been travelling to Enbarr; I want to go see the Opera again, since it might be the last time I get the chance to...” 

Now it is Felix who raises his eyebrows in surprise. “You’re leaving Fódlan?” The thought is foreign to him – even though he has decided to abandon his land and title, leaving Fódlan itself has never even crossed his mind. The connection he feels to this land, where he spilled so much blood - where his family spilled their blood - runs too deeply.

A slight blush forms on Dorothea’s cheeks, which she poorly attempts to hide behind her ale. “Oh, I thought you knew – I promised Petra to join her in Brigid. She said she wanted to show me the sights, and I’ve always wanted to travel!”

She isn’t telling him everything, but the way Dorothea starts absentmindedly playing with a strand of her hair betrays a bashfulness Felix has never seen her display before. At the academy, she had always been teasing, always confident. It seems that Petra managed to break through where none of the young noblemen succeeded.

In lieu of a reply, Felix simply raises an eyebrow and reaches his hand out to his tankard once more. The motion, however, sends another burst of pain through his arm, and he winces. Dorothea, trained with years of experience in the war as a healer on the battlefield, immediately fixates on the bandage he haphazardly applied, and gasps.

“Felix! Has the war taught you nothing? By the goddess, I know you have always struggled with healing magic, but this looks like the handiwork of a child! How are you even still alive?”

He becomes acutely aware of the landlord looking over with some interest, now that Dorothea’s playful tone has risen slightly and become scolding. Felix doesn’t want to endanger his reputation here any further, and so he swiftly covers her mouth with his other hand. The gesture is undoubtedly childish, but it does quiet her down. 

“Stop fussing. I just didn’t have the time to do it right,” he hisses. With the way Dorothea raises her eyebrows, he assumes she doesn’t believe him. “I... there was just one too many, I didn’t see them. It was a foolish mistake. Goes to show that I should have just trained harder.”

Dorothea’s eyes turn soft, and she puts her hand on his arm. He feels a burst of healing magic, unbidden and yet welcome. The pain subsides quickly. 

“Why did you leave, Felix? Everybody is worried about you, and this just shows their worry was justified. We didn’t win a war for you to destroy yourself afterwards. I know that some... rather unfortunate things happened, but-”

Felix drags his arm back abruptly. “Stop your meddling. I’ve no need of your help.” The obvious lie tastes strange on his tongue, but her prying suddenly bothers him deeply, threatening the solitude he worked so hard to achieve. Dorothea furrows her brows.

“I understand that you’re bitter, and you certainly have every right to be, but isolating yourself does nothing to help. Haven’t we all gone through the same terrible years? If anybody understands, it would be us! What is wrong with you!?” 

He slams down his tankard hard on the table. By now, even the men in the corner are staring at them with unconcealed interest. At some point during the conversation his hands started shaking, and he wills them to still. 

“None of you will ever understand,” he grits out through his teeth. “This is my path and I have chosen it for myself. I don’t need any of you.” He stares at her eyes, wide in shock. Felix shoves the plate away from him, the half-eaten meal now making him nauseous, and leaves the table, storming up a flight of stairs to the room he had rented for the night and not looking back. 

As he opens the door, however, he is held back by Dorothea, once more grasping his arm. He faces her, ready to yell at her again, but the determination in her narrowed eyes stills him. 

“I can tell there’s no getting through to you. That’s fine, do whatever you want. But - can you please write to Sylvain at least, let him know you are still alive? You don’t even know the extent of the damage your egotism is causing.”

With this, Dorothea swiftly turns around and descends the stairs, her coat swirling. Felix is left standing by his dim room, swords still strapped to his back, and starring after her.


End file.
